


Stress

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, Established Relationship, Inline with canon, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Phone Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Video
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-18
Updated: 2014-12-18
Packaged: 2018-02-28 16:36:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2739446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Byakuran isn’t listening to Irie’s report." Irie is stressed and Byakuran is forceful.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stress

Byakuran isn’t listening to Irie’s report.

He’s sure it’s important, is sure whatever the other is saying is relevant and valuable information that Byakuran ought to at least pretend to be interested in. But he knows Irie is competent, knows that inevitable betrayal is insurance for pristine obedience now, when Irie still thinks his treachery is unknown, and it’s far too easy to get distracted by the tremble of nerves at the soft of Irie’s mouth and the shadows of exhaustion painting transient beauty under his eyes. Byakuran is leaning in without thinking about it, as if being closer to the screen will equate to being closer to Irie himself, like if he’s only near enough he can reach straight through the monitor itself to touch the bruised-purple of Irie’s tired features.

“You should get more rest, Sho-chan,” he says, deliberately speaking louder to cut off the endless flow of Irie’s words. The other blinks, offense at being interrupted flickering hurt over his features, but he won’t protest, he’s too frightened for that. Byakuran keeps talking, forms his lip into the beginnings of a pout, as if it is sympathy and not amusement he’s feeling. “Are you sleeping at your desk again?”

“Byakuran,” Irie starts to protest, but then he catches himself, his eyes flicker away from the screen. Byakuran can see the shiver of fear hit him, the memory of a few punishments and far more hollow threats, all the effort Byakuran has put in in the past culminating here into panic he can turn on just by smiling. Irie isn’t watching him, doesn’t see the tiny tremble of satisfaction that touches Byakuran’s smile into sincerity -- he can’t help it, Irie frightened is sweeter than candy.

“I can’t sleep in my room,” Irie says, his voice soft and compliant even before he lifts his eyes so Byakuran can see the apologetic panic in the green. “Here I know I won’t miss anything important.”

“You can’t sleep well at your desk, though.” Byakuran leans back in his chair, now that he has Irie’s undivided attention locked in on him. “And sleep isn’t all beds are for, Sho-chan, didn’t I teach you that yet?”

Irie’s blush is a beautiful thing. It surges instantly into his cheeks, tints them as red as his hair; Byakuran can see his chin start to come down, like he’s trying to hide his reaction, but then he blinks and jerks his chin back up, unwilling to break their sustained eye contact.

“Sleeping is all I have time for right now,” he attempts, but it’s a flimsy dodge and Byakuran ignores it with the same amount of attention it deserves.

“Relaxation is important.” He brings a hand to his chin, braces his head so he can focus on painting suggestion into the curve of his smile. Irie’s blush hasn’t faded; he’s still crimson, so tense with embarrassment he’s nearly vibrating where he sits. “You don’t take care of yourself when I’m not there.”

“I’ll take a break right after this report --” Irie starts, but Byakuran whines a protest and he goes as silent as if the other has tightened a noose around his throat.

“The report can wait,” Byakuran declares. “That gives you a few extra minutes, doesn’t it?”

Irie swallows visibly, blinks too-fast. His eyelashes are feathered shadow, so dark Byakuran can make them out even with the imperfect resolution of the screen. “I’ll go right now, then,” he says, like it’s settled, but he doesn’t reach to hang up, so Byakuran doesn’t rush to speak.

“No.” Irie doesn’t look surprised. Byakuran didn’t expect him to. His protests are the desperate struggles of an animal that is well and truly caught, and even those are weakening. Byakuran can see the resignation when he shuts his eyes, the weight of submission when he bows his head like he’s waiting for a blow. “Stay on the phone.”

Irie flinches, as if Byakuran is raising a hand to hit him, as if Byakuran has anything he can possibly do at this distance other than give verbal orders. Then the sharp line of his shoulders collapses, the stiff focus of his posture gives way, and he becomes Byakuran’s Sho-chan in truth, exhausted and brilliant and irrevocably broken.

“Okay,” Irie says. “Let me go lock the door.”

Even then, he doesn’t move until he sees Byakuran’s nod of permission. That hesitation keeps Byakuran smiling until Irie has crossed back and dropped into his seat. His uniform isn’t sitting as well as it was a moment ago; Byakuran can almost see the rumples of the threadbare t-shirt he knows is under the white jacket.

Byakuran lifts a hand, waves generosity at the screen. “Whatever you like, Sho-chan.”

Irie’s mouth has fallen into his usual frown, the stress of existence dragging the corners of his lips down to match the trembling panic that is always just behind his eyes. “Are you --”

“You’re the one in need of relaxation, Sho-chan,” Byakuran points out. “I’m just ensuring you follow through on my orders.”

Irie ducks his head, but that does nothing to hide him from the uncaring stare of the camera, and after a moment he moves his hand; Byakuran can see the action in the shift of his shoulder, though he can’t see exactly what the other is doing.

“Do you want to watch?” Irie asks, his voice cracking high and nervous on the question. He hasn’t lifted his head. “Should I...move the camera, or --”

“This is fine,” Byakuran purrs. “Just tip your head up so I can see your face.”

Irie swallows again. This time it sounds like a whimper, a tiny wordless protest, but he’s lifting his chin as told, raising his gaze so Byakuran can see the glow of color in his eyes, green almost real enough to make up for the electronic nature of the image.

“Should I talk?” Irie sounds desperate, like he’s flailing for guidance or begging for an out. It makes Byakuran laugh.

“Whatever you do will be perfect, Sho-chan.” He’s leaning in again, resting his elbow on the desk again. “Did you get the flowers I sent?”

Irie doesn’t answer for a moment. His eyes are fixed on the screen but for a moment the edge of his frown relaxes, and Byakuran doesn’t need the motion of his white-wrapped shoulder to say Irie’s fingers are pressing against hot-flushed skin. “It would have been hard to miss them.”

“I wanted you to know how much I was thinking about you.” Irie’s eyelashes flicker, his gaze slips out-of-focus for a moment. Byakuran keeps talking. “And it sounds like you weren’t using your bedroom anyway.”

“I would,” Irie protests, but even the sound of his voice is weak, more a whine than true anger. Byakuran’s smile tugs tighter at his mouth. Irie wouldn’t dare voice even this minimal resistance if he weren’t distracted. “There’s so much to do here.”

“I could bring you back to Italy,” Byakuran offers. It’s a lie, he can’t and more importantly he won’t, but it’s worth it for the way Irie’s gaze flutters hot and trembling with panic at the same time.

“No,” Irie says. It’s too fast, a giveaway for the secret Byakuran has known longer than Irie himself has; it speaks to his naivete, that Irie ever thought he could keep up enough of an act to truly fool the other. “It’s fine, I’ve got it.”

“I know you do,” Byakuran agrees easily. “Faster, Sho-chan.”

“I’m --” Irie starts.

“ _Faster_. Like it’s me touching you.”

Irie shudders visibly, lets a lungful of air go all at once; but then he leans in closer over the desk, reaches out with one arm to brace himself, and the motion of his shoulder speeds. He groans louder than he intended, judging from the color that floods his cheeks, but Byakuran is leaning in too, echoing Irie’s motion after the fact as his spine draws tight and hot with anticipation.

“ _Sho_ -chan.” It’s soft, drawling in his throat, and Irie jerks at the sound, his face creasing into lines of what would be pain in any other circumstance. He whimpers incoherency and Byakuran smiles wider still, even though Irie’s not looking at him anymore, his eyes are squeezed shut on whatever image he has in his mind. “You’re thinking of me, right?”

Irie chokes, moans like he does when Byakuran’s fingers touch the back of his neck, and that’s close enough to confirmation. Byakuran’s breathing is catching faster in his throat, anticipation coiling adrenaline into his veins, and if he’s tense it’s nothing compared to Irie. He can see the tendons at the back of Irie’s hand where he’s making a fist against the table, can see the pink of the other’s lip going white under the pressure of his teeth.

“Tell me,” Byakuran urges, calls up every ounce of the command he has taught Irie to obey instinctively. “Tell me who you’re thinking of, Sho-chan.”

He can see the effort Irie exerts. It’s remarkable, how hard he tries given how close he must be, how desperately he drags at air in an attempt to cool his blood. But then he lets his lip go, and forms his mouth around the first syllable, and Byakuran can see his control starting to slip, and speaks loud over him.

“I  _love_  you, Sho-chan,” he purrs, and the sound of his name on Irie’s lips turns into a wail, a trembling plea for mercy as the slump of his shoulders convulses into involuntary reaction. Byakuran doesn’t have to see the movement of Irie’s fingers on himself; he knows the hazy wash of pleasure over those familiar features, recognizes the tremor of aftershocks too jerky to be feigned.

Byakuran leans back before Irie does. He’s not entirely sure Irie can even sit up straight; the line of his shoulders where he’s collapsed against the desk speaks of exhaustion pushed too far, physical satisfaction turning into a demand for rest even Irie Shoichi can’t ignore forever.

“You should rest, Sho-chan,” he says again, lets his face curve around a sharp smile when Irie lifts his head to stare up at the screen. There’s no lie in the other’s eyes at all, right now; Byakuran suspects he lacks the strength to even muster an attempt at such. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

“Byakuran --” Irie starts.

Byakuran lifts a hand, flutters his fingers in an imitation of a wave. “Sleep well, Sho-chan!”

He makes sure he keeps smiling until the screen goes blank.


End file.
